


Rabbit Hole

by doctor__idiot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Confessions, Domestic, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Obliviousness, Pining, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-26 06:51:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9872351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor__idiot/pseuds/doctor__idiot
Summary: Dean starts being honest with Sam when Sam is asleep and it turns into a habit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was talking to a friend about domestic!Winchesters. That paired with procrastinating all the other prompts I should be writing equals this.
> 
> I might write a second chapter to this. I'm not sure yet.
> 
> Disclaimer: Nothing's mine. Unbeta'd.

“You remember,” Dean begins conversationally, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel, “when we were young and dad was the one driving? I was never any good at sleeping in the car but as soon as we hit the road, you’d drop off right away against my shoulder in the backseat. 

I remember that one winter — you must have been eight or nine… The heating didn’t work and we wrapped ourselves into that god-awful excuse of a blanket. It was so scratchy and stiff and literally did nothing to keep us warm, and you _still_ managed to sleep like a dead person.”

He pauses, glancing over at his brother’s sleeping form. Curled into himself, his breath fogging up the window where he’s got the side of his face pressed against it, he makes the occasional sleep noise and barely even stirs when the car hits a pothole on the uneven road.

Dean can’t stop the smile that’s tugging at his mouth from growing wider so he doesn’t try, giving in to it instead. 

It’s too easy to lull himself into a false sense of security. Even if the world is studiously headed for damnation, in these quiet moments, nighttime on the road, nothing to keep Dean company but the engine and his brother’s breathing, it’s easy to have hope. Hope that everything is going to work out after all in the end.

Dean doesn’t believe in fairy tale endings.

“Sometimes I wish we could go back to that,” he says out loud, “To broken heaters and scratchy blankets being the problem instead of Heaven and Hell and all the critters in it. I wish you could still be that small and innocent. I wish … you’d still let me hold you like I did back then when you were cold and tired.”

Sam sighs in his sleep, arching his spine a little — it’s got to be hurting with how it’s been cramped for the past hour and a half —, before he settles back down, face turned toward Dean now. His eyes move behind closed lids and his fingers twitch against his thigh. 

Dean wonders if Sam dreams. If he still has nightmares. For now, though, Sam’s face is smooth, his mouth slightly open, and he looks practically peaceful.

Dean makes an effort to go around the potholes for the rest of the way.

+

It looks uncomfortable, the way Sam lies slumped over the table, dead to the world with his cheek smushed into the pages of a lore book. He is drooling a little on the writing and Dean can barely suppress a snicker. 

He grabs the blanket from his favorite armchair in their library and unfolds it, covering Sam’s back and shoulders. He cradles Sam’s head, supporting it, while he carefully moves the book to the side and closes it. He folds the corner of the blanket to slide it under Sam’s face so he isn’t lying on the hard wood.

“You know,” Dean addresses Sam’s unruly mop of brown hair, “I used to be able to carry you to bed when you fell asleep. But you had to go and get all Gigantor on me. It’s you’re own damn fault if you get a crick in your neck.”

He could always wake Sam but the guy gets less sleep than is healthy, even for Winchester standards, and Dean can’t bring himself to.

Acting on an impulse, he cards his fingers trough Sam’s hair for a moment, gently so as not to wake him, before he grabs the lore book Sam was drooling on a moment ago, and gets comfortable in the armchair.

“Research really isn’t my strong suit, Sammy,” he says as he flips through the pages, “You’ve always been better at this than I am. You always think I’m trying to get out of it when I say that but that’s not true.

Well, maybe it’s a little true. But mostly it’s just that I overlook things. It’s hard to focus for me sometimes and you, you never miss anything. It’s kind of scary really. Makes me wonder what other kind of stuff you notice. You’ve always been more perceptive than me. Makes you the better hunter. Better person, too, probably.”

He’s hardly made it twelve pages far when Sam stirs awake. 

Dean closes the book and grins at his bleary face. “Hey there, Sleeping Beauty.”

Sam makes a tired grunting noise, shaking his hair out of his eyes. He looks around as if he’s trying to figure out where he is and why he isn’t in his bed when he so clearly was asleep.

Frankly, it’s adorable. Dean doesn’t say that, though. What he says is, “It’s late. You should go to bed.”

Sam nods at him and gets up, rubbing his neck. Dean opens the book in his lap back up and returns his attention to the segment about summoning spells, even if the words are starting to swim before his eyes.

He startles a little in surprise when Sam pads over to him and drapes the blanket over Dean’s legs. His hand hovers near, slightly outstretched, and Dean stares at it, waiting for Sam to do something with it — maybe pat Dean’s shoulder or take the book from him and demand he go to bed, too.

Sam’s hand drops and he says quietly, “Night, Dean,” before Dean can hear his bare feet retreating down the hallway.

+

“I love you,” Dean says as he sits by the hospital bed, “I know I don’t say it and I’m sorry for that. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me.”

They pumped Sam full of antibiotics and painkillers and he knocked out from exhaustion roughly two hours ago. Dean still hasn’t moved from the uncomfortable plastic chair.

“Actually, that’s a lie. It’s hard for me because if I say it … I feel like everyone will know. And they’ll use it against me. Against you. And I can’t … Sammy, I can’t lose you again, not ever again, and saying it, saying _that_ … it makes everything so much more complicated because I’ve already got so much to lose and I just—“

He turns his mouth into the back of his hand, muffling a sob that’s threading to spill over his lips and he can’t let it. Sam might be asleep but that doesn’t mean Dean gets to fall apart. They’re not out of the woods and Sam still needs him.

He takes a deep breath. “So I’m sorry I can’t say that to you. I just have to trust that you know.”

The walls are too white and it smells like blood and disinfectant. It’s not often that a hunt goes so bad that it requires a visit to a hospital and Dean is grateful for that. But now and then it does happen. It always hits Dean harder than he feels like it should. It’s hardly the closest call they’ve had but he still can’t seem to make his hands stop shaking.

Sam doesn’t wake up for the rest of the afternoon and the night. The nurses assure Dean that it’s a good sign, that his body needs rest to heal, and they try to convince him to go home and get some sleep.

Dean is fairly sure they only let him stay because he looks like he is about to break down and start crying right there in the room. 

He falls asleep in the chair with his head pillowed on his arms next to Sam’s hip and wakes up with Sam’s fingers, bruised and weak but alive and moving, in his hair.

+

It feels almost a little like old times when Sam falls asleep on Dean during movie night.

Dean can’t even be mad that Sam only barely makes it through the first two _Highlander_ instalments before his head sinks heavily onto Dean’s shoulder.

The warm length of his body is pressed against Dean’s side and, in his sleep, he turns his cheek, presses his nose into the fabric of Dean’s T-shirt. His small puffs of breath are hot against Dean’s skin, making him shiver.

“You always do that.” Dean can’t keep the fondness out of his voice. Not that he’s trying very hard. “Fall asleep on my when we’re watching my movies. I suffered through that terrible _Star Trek_ remake for you without snoozing off and this is how you repay me.”

Sam makes a sound, coming from low in his throat, that could have been agreement if he was awake.

“Alright, Sasquatch, just let me…” Dean grabs for the remote and switches off the DVD player and the TV. Without jostling Sam too much, he fishes for the blanket and draws it up over the both of them. 

He is still wearing his jeans but taking them off would require getting up and that would probably wake his brother up. So he stays where he is, angles himself more toward Sam so he can pull him in and wrap one arm around him.

“I wish we still slept in the same room,” Dean confesses after a minute of silence. Predictably, Sam doesn’t respond. “I don’t know what it is, habit I guess, but I always sleep better when I know where you are. And I only ever really know where you are when I can see you, when I’ve got you right here next to me. It’s stupid, I know. But it is what it is.”

Sam shifts against him, rearranging his limbs in his sleep, and Dean rests his cheek on top of Sam’s head, closing his eyes. 

+

“Remember when I told you I loved you?”

Sam hums in his sleep, his legs propped up against the dashboard, his head lolling on his shoulders with the movements of the car. Dean’s eyes flicker between Sam and the road. Rain is coming down heavily and visibility is low but they’re only another half hour from Lebanon and Dean wants nothing more than to be home. 

The wind picks up again and Dean tightens his grip on the wheel.

“That wasn’t all I wanted to tell you,” he says, too quiet against the pounding of the rain if this were a real conversation, “Because there’s more. I’m not sure I can even say it now, but … I really want to. Just gimme a minute.”

The windshield wipers barely make a dent in the sheet-like downpour and Dean grudgingly reduces his speed. No point in risking running them off the road.

“I can’t tell you when it started now but … maybe when you got that acceptance letter for Stanford. I’d always thought I can’t live without you because it’s too scary, being your big brother and all. Not being there to protect you, it killed me. Always being afraid that something’s gonna happen to you and I won’t be there to stop it. 

I really thought that’s what it was about. But then I realized that I don’t just want to protect you. I just wanted … you. I-I missed you like crazy, Sammy, I can’t even tell you how much.”

The rain begins to ease up slightly and Dean presses the gas harder again.

“And then dad disappeared. It was the last straw but I think … I was waiting for an excuse to see you all along. To get you to come with me. And I wish I could be sorry, I wish I could apologize for that because it ruined your life. But shit, it was the best fucking day of mine.

And you were all grown up. I hadn’t seen you for four years and you weren’t that scrawny kid that got a full-ride straight out of high school anymore, and it hit me so hard back then, Sam. I almost did something stupid. I almost told you right then and there, almost ruined everything before we even had a chance to get a fresh start.

I’m glad I didn’t. Tell you, I mean. I don’t think I could’a handled the look of disgust on your face. Big brother telling you he’s in love with you, that’s not something you just get over. There. I said it. Dean Winchester’s got the hots for his little brother. Ain’t that something, huh, Sammy?”

The car hydroplanes for all of two seconds and Dean’s knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. They whip past the sign that announces ten miles to Lebanon, Kansas.

“If I’d told you, it would’a ruined the chance of us ever being together again. And then I just sort of never got a chance to tell you. To be honest, I think I forgot about it for awhile. There’s always so much going on, one big bad after the other. No time to sit around moping and pining for your brother. But it keeps … coming back. Or maybe it’s always been there and it just sometimes gets overshadowed by all the shit.

Some days I wanna tell you but then I never do. Some days I think, just for a moment, that you already know. It’s that look you sometimes get … like you’re waiting for something. For the other shoe to drop, I don’t know. I already told you, I’m not very perceptive. I wish I could read you better.”

The rain slowly lessens to a drizzle. Dean’s hold on the wheel relaxes and he shakes out his shoulders.

“You’d kill me if you knew this but sometimes — actually, no, most of the time — kind of all of the time, it’s really embarrassing — I think about you when I … when I jerk off. Or have sex with women. It’s not that I don’t like them, it’s just … I can’t control it, it’s just always there. I’m pulling her hair and I can’t help thinking about what it would be like to pull your hair. I think about how your moans would sound different from hers. No matter how tall she is or how hard she’s ridin’ me, I always …”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before refocusing them on the asphalt, staring straight ahead. He is half-hard in his jeans and entirely unsure why he is going down this road, now of all times.

“I always think … about how you’re bigger. Stronger. Shit, you gotta be stronger than me by now and I don’t know why that turns me on so much but it does. You don’t have to worry or anything, I’m not … gonna do anything. Because I know you don’t want me that way. Just, Sammy…”

It’s too much and Dean breaks off. 

It’s been helpful, talking to Sam this way, getting all the things out in the open that Dean wouldn’t say otherwise, but today somehow it has the opposite effect. Naively, he thought he would feel relieved, as if after confession. But all he feels now is lonely. Horny, too, a little bit because he is nothing if not predictably. But mostly he’s tired and lonely and he feels … dirty. He supposes he ought to. It’s only right with all that wrongness inside him.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, finally, and pulls up in front of the Men of Letter’s bunker. Home.

He turns to his brother, raising his voice, “Alright, wake up, we’re—”

Sam is already facing him, eyes awake and clear, nothing to indicate that he just woke up. His face is expressionless, giving nothing away, but he’s staring right at Dean as if he is looking _into_ him.

Dean goes rigid with sudden terror. He really should have checked that Sam’s still asleep but he was so wrapped up in himself and… God, how stupid. He can’t know when exactly Sam woke up, how much he actually heard, but whenever it was, Dean is monumentally screwed.

“S-Sam?”

There’s a tic in Sam’s jaw and for one split-second Dean thinks his brother is going to cry.

Trough gritted teeth, Sam asks, “How could you?”

And of course Sam’s angry, how could he not be? He’s the one who’s been living with Dean for over a decade while Dean hid this … _disease_ from him.

“I’m sorry, I never would’ve done anything to you, you gotta believe—”

Sam grabs for Dean’s wrist, lightning-quick, and Dean falls silent. His hands are trembling with lingering shock and he keeps himself tense, tries to twist his arm out of Sam’s grip, fighting to keep his distance. 

“You motherfucker!” Sam spits at him then, “You fucking asshole, I can’t _believe_ you.”

Dean closes his eyes and lets the insults hit him full-force because they’re still less than he deserves. He—

Vertigo strikes when Sam practically yanks on his wrist and with a surprised gasp Dean tumbles forward into the space Sam is currently occupying. Sam releases him then, only to clasp his palms around Dean’s face, the tips of his fingers digging into Dean’s temples and the sides of his head.

Dean’s eyes fly open and he doesn’t get a chance to ask what the fuck Sam thinks he is doing because Sam’s mouth crashes down on his, no finesse, all desperation, and Dean’s body jolts with the sudden feeling of want that slams into him. 

He’s stunned speechless, motionless for the time it takes Sam to bite down on his lip and lick into his mouth, and then Dean’s hands clamp down on Sam’s shoulders on their own accord.

This can’t— This is—

“You goddamned idiot,” Sam says in between frantic kisses, sounding breathless and choked up, and Dean thinks he gets it now.

Maybe he said that out loud because Sam makes a sounds that is close to a growl, coming all the way from the back of his throat. “Took you long enough.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's late and I'm tired and I honestly don't know if this is any good. But here you go.

Somehow Dean ends up in Sam’s lap in the passenger seat. It’s a nice place to be and he’d really hate to complain but the back of his head is brushing the roof and he doesn’t have enough room to get his hands underneath Sam’s clothes like he wants to.

“Sam,” he gasps, pulling back with an effort, “I want— We should—”

“Go inside, yeah,” Sam agrees but keeps kissing Dean, keeps putting his paws all over him, making it hard for Dean to put his foot down.

Maybe doing it in the car won’t be so bad, Dean’s had sex in here with girls, they can make this work. Only that a petite 5’4’’ waitress is vastly different from his 6’4’’ brother with his broad shoulders and endless limbs.

Dean twists out of Sam’s grip when he bumps his head on the roof for the second time. Sam gives a sound of protest and Dean is hard in his jeans but he ignores both his brother and his cock and kicks open the door.

He’s barely out of the car when he finds himself pressed against the side of it, the hot line of Sam’s long body covering his front and he can’t stop the little moan that escapes him when their dicks align through fabric in the new position.

Sam brings his mouth right next to Dean’s ear and says in a voice that doesn’t tolerate any objection, “I’m going to fuck you.”

Dean drops his head back against the top of the car and groans. They have more space now but Dean is still not very eager to get naked in broad daylight, even if it’s a secluded spot. It’s October, no less, and the air is too cold for these kinds of endeavors.

Problem is, Sam’s got his mouth pressed to the side of Dean’s neck, licking and biting the skin, leaving a wet trail all the way down to the protruding bones of Dean’s clavicle, and Dean finds it difficult to keep a hold on both his dignity and his higher brain functions.

Eventually, it’s Sam who pulls away and Dean’s the one who make a low whining noise that he will deny to the end of his days. Sam doesn’t make fun of him, just slots his palm against Dean’s, intertwining their fingers — Dean is going to protest as soon as he finds his voice —, and tugs him to the bunker entrance and inside.

Dean kind of wishes they had a bed for this but they don’t make it any farther than the war room where Sam crowds Dean against the illuminated table, stripping him of his jacket and his shirts, before he lifts him onto it.

Dean’s hands dig into Sam’s shoulders, “Jesus, warn a guy,” before he gets with the program and drags Sam into the space between his spread thighs, heels of his feet hooked behind his brother’s knees.

Sam’s grinning down at him. “You said you like that I’m stronger than you.”

Dean’s mouth falls open. “That’s— I didn’t mean _this_.” He gestures between them, making Sam laugh. “How much did you hear anyway?”

“More than you’d like.” Sam kisses him again. “And I think you meant exactly _this_.”

Sam’s kisses are intoxicating, demanding but gentle and so close to worship that they make Dean’s head spin. He breathes against Sam’s mouth, willing his foggy brain to keep up with the conversation.

He shakes his head, “I never thought—”

Sam shushes him, fingers tracing the curve around Dean’s eyes and along his cheek bones. He brushes his thumb over Dean’s cupid’s bow before pushing against Dean’s half-open mouth. Dean opens it a little wider, tongue flicking out to catch the tip of Sam’s thumb, and he closes his lips around it, sucking softly.

The moan he gets from Sam in return shakes through him, liquifying his spine. He teases his fingers along Sam’s waistband before popping the button and unzipping his fly. 

“Come on,” he urges quietly and they break apart to get rid of the rest of their clothes.

Sam’s naked skin against his makes all the want, the desire, the need he’s been feeling for too long bubble to the surface. He fists his fingers in Sam’s hair, tightly enough to make Sam hiss into his mouth, and wraps his legs around Sam’s hips, getting their cocks to rub together with only a little bit of pre-come to ease the friction.

“I really— I really want you to put your money where you’re mouth is,” Dean rasps, tilting his head back to give Sam better access to his neck. He’s going to end up with more than just a couple hickeys and he is strangely okay with that. “But last time I checked we don’t got any lube stashed around here.”

He lets his eyes slip shut, too turned on to see straight, and drags Sam back up into a messy kiss. 

“If you’d let go of me for two seconds,” Sam says,” I could get some.”

The sound Dean makes is practically a growl and his fingers clutch harder at Sam’s hair, making Sam chuckle. 

“Two seconds?” Dean asks.

Sam kisses him again, slowing down and letting it linger. “Promise.”

He vanishes down the hall, leaving Dean feeling cold and vaguely bereft. He wriggles out of his jeans and boots and kicks both to the side. He leans back until his can support himself on his elbows, letting his head fall back. Waiting for his brother to return.

His eyes are closed and he startles briefly when Sam pops up back between his legs, one hand splaying out over Dean’s stomach. 

“Christ,” he breathes, sounding awed, and presses a kiss to Dean’s sternum, “You got any idea what you look like right now?”

Dean hums. “That was more than two seconds.”

“Bunker’s too damn big.”

Sam’s tongue flicks out at Dean’s left nipple, teasing it, before he closes his teeth around it, drawing at guttural moan from Dean. Dean can’t even be ashamed of all the noise he’s making because it’s _Sam_ and he _never_ thought he would get to have this — Sam’s right, he’s been an idiot, such a fucking idiot — and he’ll be damned if he’s going to hold any of it back.

Sam seems to be appreciative of Dean’s approach because he ups his efforts and then gives Dean’s right nipple the same treatment until both nubs are red and sensitive. Dean squirms when Sam’s brushes his thumbs over them.

He is painfully hard against Sam’s hip and he mindlessly bucks up into the friction until Sam pulls away from him. The whine of protest slips past his lips before he can stop it.

Sam’s mouth is back on his then and he grabs for Sam’s face, fingers snaking back into that unruly brown hair, and pours all his desperation into the kiss because he’s not sure he can actually ask Sam for what he needs.

It’s too much, he already feels too vulnerable, and it’s perfect, feeling Sam strong and tall between his thighs. So perfect Dean _wants_ to beg him to pry him open in all the ways imaginable, wants to feel Sam’s long, deft fingers fucking into him and, more than anything, he wants his cock, wants to know what it’s like to be stuffed full of something so big.

But he can’t manage a single word. He’s lucky that Sam is so smart and gets the message anyway. 

Using his body to press Dean down against the table, Sam licks into Dean’s mouth with a lazy sort of patience, his hand’s movements slow, _reverent_ , driving Dean steadily insane.

“Sam,” Dean urges, breathlessly, and Sam bites his lip. Not hard enough to split it, just hard enough to make him feel the sting, and Dean can’t stop his hips from bucking off the table.

Sam’s fingers find their mark then, rubbing sticky-wet around Dean’s hole in a brief warning before pushing in to the second knuckle.

Dean makes a mewling sound and clenches around Sam’s finger, savoring the moan he gets from Sam in return. He’s nodding, kissing Sam harder to prompt him without words and Sam understands, adds a second finger, and, a little too quickly, a third.

It burns and Dean can’t keep his hips still. His body is confused, mixed signals of pain and pleasure, and Dean’s too hazy to know whether he’s actually pushing into the intrusion or away from it. Sam’s holding him down with a firm hand on his abdomen — which perhaps shouldn’t be as hot as Dean’s body seems to think it is —, twisting and sliding his three fingers in and out of Dean’s ass until he is so close to sobbing, so close to _coming_ that he reaches down to squeeze the base of his dick to stave off his orgasm.

“Sam, I swear to god—“

“Hey,” Sam says softly, turning his mouth into Dean’s cheek, “I’m not teasing. I wanna make sure you’re ready.”

A shiver wracks Dean’s body. “I am,” he gasps, “Jesus fucking— I’m ready, just … please.”

Despite the prep and Dean’s eagerness, it hurts when Sam’s cock sinks into him in one smooth slide. He should probably be taking his time but he is too far gone already, turned on beyond anything he’s ever felt, and he welcomes the stretch. Whoever said pain and pleasure don’t go together didn’t know what they were talking about.

Once bottomed out, Sam stays there, his hands on Dean’s sides, stroking his quivering flanks, and he’s mouthing at Dean’s shoulder, his collar bone, his neck, until Dean has gotten used to the feeling of intense fullness.

He feels like he’s going to split at the seams, literally and figuratively, and it’s too much and not enough at the same time. Sam’s too close and not close enough.

Dean draws his knees up, hooking his ankles behind the small of Sam’s back, and arches up into his brother, taking him impossibly deeper. They moan in unison, Dean’s hands flying up to Sam’s straining biceps.

“Okay?” Sam asks and it’s such an innocent question but so difficult to answer. Because, yes, Dean’s okay, so fucking okay, he doesn’t think he’s ever been this okay in his life, but he’s also not okay at all because it’s all too goddamn overwhelming and Sam’s still not fucking moving.

He grits out a ‘yes’ and lets his head thunk back against the table, angling his body into Sam as much as he can, and then, finally, Sam starts moving.

It’s slow at first because Dean is clenched tight and Sam’s testing the waters. But then Dean starts twisting his hips into Sam’s thrusts, digging his fingernails into his brother’s shoulder, and Sam shouts, shoving into Dean with a fast snap of his hip.

Dean’s mouth falls open on a drawn-out moan and he does the same thing again and again, anything to get Sam to hit that spot inside, the one that’s quickly reducing him to a shaking mess and he can’t even be embarrassed about it.

It’s not the most comfortable spot they could have chosen. The table is cold against Dean’s back, unyielding against his writhing spine, but he isn’t really registering any of that because Sam has picked up the pace, fucking into him with strokes that are steady and deep and just short of bruising. 

And Dean _wants_ to be bruised. Maybe he’s a freak for thinking it but he wants all the marks Sam’s giving him, he wants the reminders, _needs_ to know it really happened.

But more than anything, he needs to come.

He whimpers — a high, pitiful sound that’s got Sam pressing a kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth, whispering, “I got you,” and “Never gonna let you go again,” and “You’re mine.”

Dean can’t even berate him about all that pansy-ass stuff he’s spilling because Sam’s right, about all of it, and it gets right under Dean’s skin and makes a nest there. And Dean is fairly sure he doesn’t want it to leave, ever. 

Sam keeps saying things like “So beautiful” and “Look gorgeous like this” and Dean would object if he could form a coherent thought.

He chokes and gasps when Sam wraps a sure hand around Dean’s cock, broad, calloused palm pushing him to the brink in seconds and then Sam says, “Look at me,” eyes all focus and heat, “Want you to look at me when you come.”

And Dean does — looks at his brother and comes, spurting over Sam’s hand and both their bellies, creamy white dirtying up the space between them. It’ll dry sticky but Dean couldn’t care less because Sam’s got him spread so wide, still shoving into him with hard thrusts, and he’s spent and sore but he can’t stop moaning. Can’t stop asking for it.

He surges up for another kiss because he can’t seem to get any air into his lungs anyway and Sam meets him straight on. It’s uncoordinated and sloppy, just like Sam’s thrusts are becoming as he’s nearing his climax, but Dean keeps kissing him, unable to stop, already addicted beyond rehabilitation. He should have known his little brother would be worse than the damn whiskey.

Sam wrenches his mouth away from him then, pressing it against the underside of Dean’s jaw, muffling a shout as he comes. Dean swears he can feel it, coating his insides hot and sticky, and it ought to be at least a little bit gross but all he can do is groan and shudder with aftershocks.

Sam is still huge inside of him, only slowly growing smaller and soft, and Dean doesn’t know whether he wants to get up and clean up or keep his legs snug around Sam’s waist and stay like this forever. It’s a tough decision but Sam makes it for him when he straightens up and carefully pulls out.

Dean hisses and slumps back against the table, his legs slipping from Sam’s middle to hang limply off the table’s edge, his palms sliding off Sam’s shoulders and down his chest. Sam takes Dean’s hands in his, entwining their fingers, and gently presses them to the table on either side of Dean’s torso.

Dean could protest the tender gesture but Sam’s already dipped his head and started lapping at the drying come on Dean’s stomach, tiny licks around Dean’s navel and down to his cock, cleaning the last drops of cum off the tip of it. Dean is sensitive and exhausted but his traitorous body is still so tuned into Sam that his hips twitch upward on their own accord.

He groans and Sam places a kiss on the juncture between Dean’s hip and his thigh. 

“Next time,” he says, almost conversationally, and when Dean looks down at him from under half-lidded eyes, he can see him grinning, “I’m going to lick you open before I fuck you. We won’t even need lube.”

Dean knows it’s impossible for him to get hard again but damn if his body ain’t gonna try.

“Fuck,” he breathes, “Are you trying to kill me?”

“I’ll take that as permission then.”

To be honest, Sam could probably do anything he wants to Dean and Dean would love it. Would beg him for it. For more. 

It’s terrifying.

“Hey.” Sam’s tone changes. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Dean says honestly, because for once it’s true, “Awesome.”

“Shower?”

Dean nods and sits up with a groan. His back is probably going to be bruised later. He rolls his shoulders, straightening out his spine, before he slides down from the table. He’s beginning to feel Sam’s release slowly drip back out of him and he automatically reaches back, palm on the small of his back, fingers slipping into the crack of his ass to feel for himself how stretched and filthy he is.

He doesn’t notice his brother’s eyes growing dark until Sam is in his space and he’s undeniably got the better angle to slide his longer fingers along Dean’s, pressing past the pliant rim. Dean jerks in the circle of Sam’s arms, shaking and shivering with the overstimulation, tired body torn between ‘yes please’ and ‘too much’. 

When Sam withdraws, he presses a kiss to Dean’s mouth as an apology and Dean loses himself in it for a moment.

This is going to be a problem, he can tell already. It’s almost as if his fingers are itching when they’re not touching Sam. He feels like he shouldn’t be as comfortable being kissed, being held, being _fucked_ by Sam as he is. He is still waiting for his fight-or-flight instincts to kick in but there’s nothing. He’s exhausted but it’s the good kind, the sated kind that comes with phenomenal sex. 

His back is definitely going to complain about the chosen location of said phenomenal sex, but for now, everything’s aces.

It’s scares Dean a little how easy it is, how natural it feels and how sure Sam’s hands are on Dean’s waist, as if that’s where they were supposed to be all along.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Sam asks softly and Dean blinks up at him.

He reluctantly steps back, away from his brother’s body heat. “Shower first.”

Turns out a naked and dripping wet Sam is even hotter than a Sam that’s just naked, and he’s smirking, too, so Dean really can’t be blamed for pushing him up against the tiled wall in the Men of Letters’ shower room. They’re both half-hard again by the time Sam wraps one of his giant paws around both their dicks, stroking them to a second orgasm. It’s not as intense as the first one but Dean feels it all the way to his toes anyway, biting at Sam’s jaw while he’s coming down from it.

Toweled dry and dressed in boxer shorts, they decide on Dean’s room — as if Dean would ever willingly miss out on his memory foam mattress — and collapse into bed in a tangled heap of limbs.

Sam’s lying half on Dean’s chest but instead of confining, the weight on top of him is actually kind of comforting. 

“Does this change anything?” Sam asks, “Besides the obvious.”

Dean tilts his head down, trying to look at him, but his face is too close to be in focus so Dean turns his eyes back toward the ceiling.

“I hope to hell it won’t.”

“Me too.” Sam’s stubbly cheek scratches across Dean’s skin when he shifts around. “I could hear you sometimes, you know. You’re not very observant when you’re all wrapped up in yourself.”

Dean swears Sam sounds _fond_ and it makes his stomach flip. “What’d you hear?”

“Generic stuff. You’re stumped over a case, you’re complaining about the lack of classic rock stations in the East, you’re rambling about how I don’t know to appreciate the finer things in life — by which I can only assume you mean my refusal to get my pancakes with a side of bacon at that waffle place in Wichita.”

“You _don’t_ know to appreciate the finer things.”

Sam snorts a laugh and Dean relaxes under him, unaware of how tense his muscles became the moment Sam said he’s been listening to Dean.

“I know you’re worried about me,” Sam continues, “I know you’re wondering what Hell was like for me, what the Cage was like and why I never told you about it. I know you’re wondering if I still hallucinate sometimes and I know you know I still occasionally have nightmares and that you wish you could do something about them.”

“Jesus,” Dean chuckles and it sounds weak to his own ears, “I really don’t know when to shut up, do I?”

Sam props his chin up on his hand. “Dean, I don’t have to eavesdrop on you to know all that.”

“But you did eavesdrop on me.”

Sam presses his smile into Dean’s chest. “Guilty.” His fingers briefly tighten on Dean’s side in fond reassurance. “You talk about dad a lot when you think no one’s listening. And about the time when we were kids.”

Dean hums, starts combing his fingers through the tangled strands of Sam’s hair.

“I like it,” Sam confesses. “I like that you still think about him. I do, too. Sometimes … there are things I wish he was here for.”

Dean feels his mouth curl into a smirk despite the weight of the conversation. He trails his index finger down the curve of his brother’s spine. “Oh yeah?”

Sam’s laugh vibrates through him by extension. “Not for this, asshat.”

“Unpopular opinion,” Dean says, “I’m glad no one else is around for this. Our bunker. Our home. No one else.”

Sam nudges him. “Sap.”

Dean nudges back, a little harder. “Shut up.”


End file.
